


Another Shot

by DietTonicDaughter



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Bisexual Peter Parker, College Student Peter Parker, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker-centric, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DietTonicDaughter/pseuds/DietTonicDaughter
Summary: "How’s it going, Spider Man?"A text from Mr Stark. Is it Tony, now? Peter wonders.It's Tony Stark, he decides. A celebrity. An Avenger. A man who's barely talked to him in years, except for impersonal superhero check-ins like this. A man who hasn’t checked in at all since Peter moved to Cambridge and gave up Spider Man and began to fall apart. Sure, it’s a two-way street and all, but not really. Not with Tony Stark."I want to drop out," Peter replies.-After three years apart, Peter and Tony get to know each other again. For real, this time.





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> It's a slow burn!
> 
> Canon compliant through SM:Homecoming, except Tony and Pepper never got back together post-CA:CW, so we can assume there was not proposal scene.  
> Takes place Peter's freshman year of college, so he's 18/19ish.
> 
> CW: Depression, Brief Mention of Suicide  
> While the mention of suicide is passing, the depiction of depression is somewhat in-depth.  
> Please let me know if more tags/description are necessary.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Peter flops down onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. His noise cancelling headphones don’t hold up against enhanced senses, and the dorm walls are paper-thin, so he listens the guys one room over yelling about a fly; he listens to their hands and feet pounding as they pursue it; he listens to the fly buzzing away.

He should probably wash his sheets. If he’s being honest, the whole room needs to be cleaned. If he’s being brutal, his room is the least of his worries. He really needs to get his shit together.

Eyes stinging with tears, he reaches his right hand under the bed, feeling around for the shoebox where he keeps his Spider Man suit and slipping a finger under the lid to stroke the textured cloth. He can’t remember the last time he felt like he mattered.

“I can’t remember the last time I felt like I mattered,” he says aloud.

His voice sounds flat to his ears, void of emotion. The room feels suffocating; there are only a few feet of open floor visible between the university-supplied bed, dresser, nightstand, and desk. He had set up his things with May’s help at move-in, a few months back, but he’d never really finished unpacking. He’d never really felt like settling here.

There’s a text from May delivered around lunchtime, and a dozen from Ned all sent in rapid succession late in the afternoon, none of which he’s responded to. It’s fine. They’ll just think he’s busy.

Peter’s phone buzzes again -- jolting him with a short, sharp sound against the wood of his bedside table -- and he begins to sob with a sudden intensity that might shock him if he weren’t so numb. As it is, he just rides out the tears while his mind drifts, with a distant hope that this time it’ll at least be cathartic.

When the crying is done a few minutes later, his neighbors are quiet. There’s no yelling, and no pounding, but the buzzing continues. He coughs a few times and wipes his damp face aimlessly back and forth across the pillow case before flipping it to the cleaner side. He turns over and lies back against it.

There are messages to answer, and assignments to complete. There is work in the morning, directing traffic on the crowded campus streets. There are things to do, and things to prepare to do, and a few things to avoid completely, if he can. His life isn’t empty or purposeless, he knows. No one else would think so.

“Nobody understands what I’m going through.”

He should call May or Ned, but they would worry, and stress, and still not get it. Not worth the trouble. He should get ready for the Queer Alliance meeting he attends most Tuesdays at 8:00pm. Today is Tuesday. It is 7:53pm, according to the alarm clock on his desk. He considers getting up, but he’ll be late even if he leaves now, and his stomach churns at the idea of walking in after everyone’s sat down. He knows how red his eyes get when he cries and he really doesn’t want anyone asking what’s wrong. Everyone there is so nice, and compassionate, and he has to consciously slow his breathing just thinking about the well-meaning interrogation. It’s okay, he doesn’t have to, he’s not going, he can relax.

“I’m Spider Man,” he whispers, reaching back for his suit, itching to roll the ridged fabric between his fingers. It feels like fantasy, the memory of swinging through the city. Like a story he tells himself to distract from the tedium of his daily life. From the worse-than-tedium.

It’s humiliating, and exhausting, and he hates it here. He’s alone. He feels pathetic and childish; there’s nothing _actually_ wrong. He’s fine.

He snatches his hand away from the crumpled suit and reaches for his phone instead, opening the most recent text.

**How’s it going, Spider Man?**

It’s from Mr Stark. _Is it Tony now?_ Peter wonders.

Tony Stark, he decides. A celebrity. An Avenger. A man who hasn’t talked to him in years, except for impersonal superhero check-ins like this. A man who hasn’t checked in at all since Peter moved to Cambridge and gave up Spider Man and began to fall apart. Sure, it’s a two-way street and all, but not really. Not with _Tony Stark_.

 **I want to drop out** , Peter replies.

It’s unbelievably dramatic. And reckless. And aimed at completely the wrong audience. Why would Mr Stark care about that?

The admission feels heady, though, especially after the bitter numbness and resignation he’d been drowning in, trying not to be ungrateful or disruptive or disappointing. Adrenaline is zapping through him. He sees that Mr Stark has read his message a few seconds after it sends, and he finds himself springing out of bed, pacing the four-step length of his room and turning tightly each time he reaches a wall. He’s clutching his phone as he moves, eyes glued to the screen, waiting. He feels loose and mobile at every joint, bent and bouncing as he paces, like he’s preparing to spring into action. He feels _good_.

 **Why?** is Mr Stark’s response, arriving just a minute after Peter’s message went out.

Peter shoots back the first things that pop into his head, one after the next, fingers moving faster than humanly possible as his enhanced abilities take control like they haven’t in months.

**I can’t remember the last time I felt like I mattered**

**Nobody understands what I’m going through**

**I’m Spider Man**

He sees the tiny checkmarks appear as Mr Stark views his messages. He waits for a reply, still pacing. His hands are shaking in a way that makes the screen blur a bit, and he spares a moment to wonder how he’ll feel when this conversation is over. Right now all he feels is immediacy and adrenaline and relief, so acute in contrast to the dull slog of the previous weeks. His mind is waking up, shaking off the cobwebs; his body is alive with superhuman energy.

For two minutes, no response comes. Then, the message app is gone, overtaken by the notification that “Mr TS” is calling.

Peter swipes his thumb along the touch screen to accept the call and presses the phone firmly to his ear.

“Hello? Mr Stark?” The words come out squeaky and overly-energized, like Mr Stark probably remembers Peter’s voice sounding back when they first met.

“Peter…” Mr Stark sounds uncharacteristically hesitant. “Kid, are you alright?”

Peter drops into his desk chair, huffing out an unsteady breath that he hears echoed back to him. It’s a Stark Phone, high-quality with no excess audio feedback, so the echo must have been the other man’s breathing.

“Kid?” Mr Stark repeats. Peter sucks in another big breath and then lets the words flow out on the exhale.

“I want to drop out because I can’t remember the last time I felt like I mattered and nobody understands what I’m going through and I’m Spider Man.”

He can hardly believe he got it all out without a pause or a stutter, but then again, he knows it by heart. He’s been thinking it for weeks that feel like years; speaking it hollowly to his blank bedroom walls; texting it to Iron Man on a hazardous whim. Maybe he couldn’t have stuttered if he'd tried.

Peter’s socks feel suddenly itchy, so he picks them off with his toes while he waits for a response, kicking them under the desk and rolling his bare ankles in a warm stretch.

“…right, well. That’s what you—yup… Uh, Peter, I--“ Mr Stark sounds uncomfortable, and overwhelmed, and desperate to not have this conversation, so Peter spares him with an interruption.

“I  _am_ Spider Man,” Peter reiterates. “I can’t _not be_ Spider Man. And I can’t be Spider Man here.” There it is. That’s it. “Nobody gets it.”

“I get it.” Right away. “Kid, you have to know I get it. As a matter of fact, I seem to remember giving a similar little speech on the international stage, a few years back.” Mr Stark sounds teasing on the surface, but nervous just underneath that. His words are staccato and firm, lilting in odd inflections that should sound _off_. But he always sounds just right to Peter; peculiar and distinctive; comforting because he’s been hearing him for years, in voicemails and speeches and afternoon news sound bites. Peter soaks up the eloquent rambling like a sponge, his heart expanding with it, familiar and bitingly nostalgic.

“You’re not alone in this. Not totally. Not completely-- or at least you don’t have to be, if you don’t want to… be. I understand, Peter. _We_ do. I promise we do. Or we can, if you tell us.” A pause. “More.” Another pause. “About it." One more pause, longer this time. "If you want to, I mean.” Mr Stark goes quiet, then, and Peter waits a moment before he speaks, just to be sure the monologue is over. That, and he’s not really sure what to say in response.

“Yeah?” is what eventually comes out, although he wishes his tone were more skeptical, less desperate. Less watery, certainly. He’s not even crying right now, and he’d really appreciate it if his voice weren’t misrepresenting that fact.

“Come upstate,” Mr Stark proposes. “Come to the Compound, for a day or two. Just to... decompress.”

“May will worry and—“

“I won’t tell if you don’t, kid. I mean… She doesn’t have to know Peter. You’re…” Mr Stark coughs three times, harshly, and then lets out a heavy sigh. Peter’s face is on fire with some emotion that might be anticipation, or maybe flattery at the invite. Even if it’s out of pity, or guilt. _Come upstate_ , Mr Stark had said. “You need to take a beat. A sabbatical. Maybe a brief-but-thorough bender, if that’s what— wait, shit, no, you’re not twenty-one. And even if you were, honestly, I need to not be projecting my—“

“Canada,” Peter blurts out, realizing what he’s saying only as he hears himself say it. He’d just wanted to save Mr Stark from another rambling spiral, especially one so inwardly violent, but it’s not like Peter is any better at keeping his foot out of his mouth. The fingers of his left hand begin tapping a rapid rhythm on the cover of his Philosophy textbook, diverting some tension. “I… H-have you ever been to—“

“To Canada? Yeah, I’ve been to Canada. Few times. Nothing special. Don’t tell Trudeau I said that, or the press, if you don’t mind, but... why are you—Do you want to  _go_ to  _Canada_?” Mr Stark sounds nonplussed, and Peter pictures his forehead furrowing like he’d seen it do in real life, but never on TV, or online, or in the tabloids. He feels awash with the sensation of being, for a moment, the focus of Tony Stark’s attention. A problem to be unravelled. His fingers tap faster.

“T-to… um. To drink.” _Fuck_.

“You can… Peter I didn’t mean… you can drink _here_ , if you really want to. I mean, fuck, you’re in college now, right? It’s not like— _Jesus_. Can I please send a plane for you now and you can come here and have a drink with me and we can stop having this conversation? Please?” A beat. “I mean if that’s okay with—“

“That’s okay with me, sir,” Peter reassures, fingers still moving at at top speed. The tapping is probably loud and obnoxious, but it doesn’t register over the blood rushing in his ears.

“And you’ll be okay til then? You don’t want to… You don’t need to stay on the phone, or... something?” His voice is tight, awkwardness warring with concern.

Suddenly Peter needs to make it clear that he doesn’t need this, doesn’t need bother anyone; that Mr Stark doesn’t have to worry about him, or invite him for drinks, or offer to stay on the phone any longer than he wants to.

“I was just venting, Mr Stark, you don’t have to-- uh, to… I mean, it’s not like I’m a suicide risk or anything, I’m really—“

“Don’t even joke about that, Peter, I—“

“I’m not _joking about it_ , sir, I—“

“ _Peter_.”

Peter’s fingers freeze mid-tap, his spine straightening at that quiet, commanding voice. His face is still burning; it never stopped. Tony Stark is quite possibly the most powerful man in the world, Peter reminds himself, and it’s perfectly reasonable that he can render someone immobile with one word. He wonders, a little dazedly, what Mr Stark could do with a look. He feels tense all over.

“Mr Stark?”

“Nothing can happen to you, kid. I would--“

There’s a pause, and then Mr Stark’s line goes totally silent, absent of the breathing and background patter that had previously filled Peter’s right ear. Peter wants to ask what noise Mr Stark had made that he’d mute his phone to keep Peter from hearing, but he refrains. He’s already being invasive, and needy, and _reckless_ to a degree that he knows will make him queasy to recall in a more lucid moment, if one ever comes.

The line comes alive again with noise, and Peter exhales shakily as Mr Stark begins to speak again, low and slow this time, rasping on the vowels.

“It would kill me, if anything happened to you. I would fall apart, kid… And then God only knows what could-- what _I_ could…” Peter presses the soles of his bare feet flat to the floor, focusing his energy through the hardwood, completing a circuit that starts with Mr Stark’s words flowing raw and scratchy into his ear. “So please. Don’t joke. If you need…. anything. Help or… or _anything_ , Peter. No shame, no questions. Just, please. You have to understand, kid, it… It wouldn’t be pretty.”

Peter feels enormous then, frozen still in his dorm room, holding his phone to his face with a pressure that makes his cheekbone ache. He was so tired and blank for so long, and now he’s thrumming with energy, his muscles tight, his feelings turbulent. It’s all so intense and exhilarating. His voice comes out tiny.

“That’s pretty selfish, sir.”

Mr Stark hums in assent, or maybe in resignation. “I am.” His tone is almost pleasant, like he's unruffled by the accusation.

 _You’re not_ , Peter thinks desperately. Then he remembers that he’s already being stupid tonight, and there’s no reason to backpedal now. So he objects, putting the full force of his faith into it. “You’re _not,_ Mr Stark. You really, _really_ aren’t.”

Mr Stark snorts a derisive laugh, quiet as breathing, and Peter wants to hug him. He wants to take back his defensive words, wants to prove Mr Stark wrong, but he can't think how to do it.

He can remember leafing through newspapers half his height, scanning for headlines about Iron Man – about Tony Stark. He remembers Uncle Ben helping him with hard words, like “remunerative” and “licentious” and “inimitable” and “bulwark.” He remembers, years later, wading through suffocating grief with his eyes trained to the luminous “A” on the city skyline, chasing redemption and a higher purpose that he never would have found without the Merchant of Death-cum-Earth's Mightiest Hero. The spider bite was secondary; Iron Man has always been Peter's idol. Mr Stark should know that, but the stories are too big -- they catch in Peter's throat.

Pressing his heels even harder to the floor, feeling it start to creak under his strength, Peter thinks that Mr Stark probably saved him from something awful back then, and neither of them really knew. Maybe he can do it again. Then Peter might be okay, and Mr Stark might see himself through Peter's eyes. He might see that being scared doesn't make you a bad person. Neither of them has spoken for a full minute. The floorboard cracks audibly.

“Sir, I—“

“The jet’ll be there in—“ Mr Stark coughs. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Nothing, I just—um, w-when was that? The jet, I mean? W-what time am I—“ In a moment of clarity, curiosity beats out his nervous stammering. “Where are you sending a jet to in _Cambridge_?” Hysterically, he pictures himself webbing up into a stealth-mode Quinjet from the roof of his three-story dorm building.

“My dad had a spot… I’ll send a car. You’ll be ready in fifteen?”

“Minutes?” Peter confirms, nervous to get it wrong. Nervous all over, now that this is apparently going to happen. Tonight. Soon.

Mr Stark chuckles. “Yeah, kid. Minutes. Fifteen of ‘em.” The stress is no longer apparent in his voice, replaced by amusement, and something like affection. “You’ll be ready?”

“Yeah,” Peter breathes. “Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

Mr Stark hums again, and it must be louder, or closer to the phone, because the noise vibrates against Peter’s ear, making him shiver. His cheeks still feel on fire, and his throat feels raw. From the crying earlier, probably. It's not like he's actually done much talking.

“Alright then. Safe travels, Spiderling. See ya soon.”

“See ya soon, Mr Stark.”

They both breathe for a moment, waiting to see if the other is done, and then Peter hears a muffled “Alright” from the other end, and the line goes dead.

Throwing his phone down to the bedspread, Peter feels relief bubble out of him in the form of a breathy, watery laugh. He wonders what he should pack, eyes darting all over his room, body turning randomly around like the searching needle of a compass. Mr Stark had said he could stay few days, didn’t he? Should he bring his suit? Maybe there’ll be a mission. Or a threat. Or some trees to swing through, at least.

He grabs the shoebox from it’s home under the bed and tosses the lid aside. He’s grinning in a way that hurts his jaw and cheeks. He’ll bring a few things. His homework, some clothes, his toothbrush. He’ll text May and Ned from the car, or maybe from the plane.

When he's done haphazardly stuffing things into his backpack, his phone buzzes with a message alert from Mr Stark. The text contains the model and license plate number of the car he sent, the name of the driver, and an ETA that's ten minutes away. On a whim, Peter grabs the towel from the back of his chair and strips off his dirty clothes, picking up his shower caddy and room key to bring to the communal dorm bathroom. He's got ten minutes to kill, and it's been a couple days since he washed his hair; he could use a fresh start.

The adrenaline buzz is fading from the forefront of his mind, but he's still filled with relief and anticipation, so distinct from the dismal numbness that had clouded his thoughts for the last few weeks.

All in all, it doesn’t feel like too much of a come down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first Starker & first AO3 fic, which is the result of me feeling super down in the dumps while also compulsively reading "Revelations" (the ultimate WIP Starker fic by my #1 fav, the anonymous author publishing under the tag "author has already arranged a ride to church trust me"). If you're familiar with that work, you may notice some similarities here (only mine is much worse lol) (this post feels like an #Ad for that tag... tbh as it should be. Leave here now, go read that damn ART.)  
> & yeah, this is not the world's healthiest relationship dynamic (I am in no way suggesting that in real life -- or even in this story -- that a person/romance/love "cures" depression or ends depressive episodes. That is not what I meant to portray and I hope it doesn't come across like that?)
> 
> Let me know if you like my story, want more, or if I used the wrong form of "to/too/two" or something like that, bc this is highkey unbetaed. Also further story ideas, con crit, etc. Whatever, I appreciate all <3  
> Thanks y'all!


	2. The Last Three Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I had a lot of "background info" to add after extending my one-shot, so I settled on this flashback-within-a-frame-within-a-flashback to try to cram the logistical info in without being shitty, but lmk if it's too shitty anyhow]
> 
> Enjoy, please let me know what you like/hate & what I should do next/fix first
> 
> A NOTE: In this Universe of mine (not sure I slipped it in here) Tony and Pepper never got back together after CACW. There was never any proposal. They are cool with each other. It's been years!

It’s nearly 8:30pm when a large, black, old-fashioned car arrives to take Peter to the jet.

He’s freshly showered, his wet hair making him shiver a bit in the cool November air. His clothes are the same as any other day: his green winter coat over an MIT sweatshirt, thrifted jeans, and battered old Adidas; he can sense the classically-uniformed chauffeur sizing him up as she rounds the car to open the back passenger door. It opens backwards, which Peter wasn't expecting, so he has to awkwardly dodge around her to climb in.

“Thanks, sorry. Thank you,” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek nervously as he gets himself seated. He shifts his backpack to his lap and wraps both arms around it in a hug. He feels like a jerk, letting a forty-something working class woman open his door and drive him around, but maybe it would be ruder to not let her do her job.

She shuts his door firmly enough that he startles, even though he knew it would happen, and then she’s climbing into the driver’s seat and eyeing him in the rearview mirror, like she’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. His heart rate ratchets up as he tries to think of something to say.

“I’m Peter,” he tells her shakily, pulling his bag in tighter, desperate for comfort.

“I know,” she replies, face impassive under the rim of her cap. “Buckle up, Peter.”

He clicks his seatbelt in as fast as he can, stammering out more apologies as he does it. He's so stupid and forgetful sometimes. And for some reason, he hadn’t mentally prepared to interact with anyone during this trip, too eager to see Mr Stark in person. This was a mistake.

“I’m Shauna,” the driver says, voice a little softer, a little less professional, making her Boston accent known. Peter forces a smile her way, but it feels shaky, and he’s glad to see her eyes are on the road as she steers the car away from his building.

He spends the next few blocks picking at a seam on his jeans, trying hard to convince himself that it wouldn’t be rude to just mess around on his phone for the time being. He knows it wouldn’t be, almost certainly, but what if it is? It's better not to chance it.

He hugs his backpack tighter, trying to discreetly calm his heart rate and release some tension from his painfully-straightened spine.

“You some kinda genius, Peter?” Shauna asks at a red light, turning her head to meet his eye for an instant.

Peter nearly chokes. He feels more intruded upon with every look, every word. He’d let his adrenaline rush get the better of him before; he's far from ready to be out in public, interacting with nice people whose words grind harshly against his brain.

He could put up the barrier, he thinks frantically, there’s a button in the center console beside him. Mr Stark had done that to Happy, once, while Peter was with him in the backseat. After Germany. It’s part of her job, it’s not rude, but what if she’s offended? The car slides forward again, passing through the intersection before Peter has managed a response.

“Just, it’s not every day I pick up a kid from MIT for an urgent meeting with Stark industries.” She pauses. “Or every night, I guess.”

Peter coughs out a vague “Yeah,” which he quickly regrets, because it’s not really an answer, unless he’s claiming to be a genius, which he’s just… not. Clearly. A genius would be able to figure a way out of this sort of gut-clenching conversation. A genius probably wouldn't feel cornered and nauseated by idle smalltalk. He’s getting a headache, so he shuts his eyes against the streetlights coming through the windshield, clenching them so tightly they tear up a bit.

“The trip will be about an hour, Peter. You go ahead and relax. I’ll put up the divider so the headlights won’t bother you; just use the controls on the console if you need anything, ok?” Her voice is gentle, so much so that that Peter knows she must’ve noticed him grimacing with his eyes screwed shut. He feels sick with shame.

“Thanks. S-sorry, uh... Headache. Thank you.” He sounds as exhausted as he feels, body and mind coming off a sharp high, tied in knots over his own ineptitude.

“Water and snacks are to the right of the console, if you’d like. I’ll let you know when we’ve arrived.”

Peter nods blindly, so grateful to this kind woman and stupidly unable to communicate it. He listens to the near-silent hiss of the divider sliding shut and releases a heavy gust of air.

Just one hour to the jet; then a jet to Mr Stark.

Mr Stark.

Peter’s mind bumps up against the memory of their most recent conversation; the shame and embarrassment are already rearing for attack, so Peter retreats. He squeezes his backpack again, reminding himself firmly that he was invited; that Mr Stark likes him; that he wants him there.

Peter’s eyes stay closed as he skims through his memories, looking for evidence that support his hypothesis, thinking of warm brown eyes and soft smiles as exhaustion gives way to unconsciousness.

* * *

* * *

 After Peter had decided not to become an Avenger in the middle of his sophomore year, Mr Stark had made it clear that he intended to be there for Peter.

Unfortunately, May found out his Big Secret that day, and Peter had spent a whole month grounded from his phone, his computer, and his Spider Man suit. When she'd finally come around to letting him -- occasionally, safely, in daylight hours -- be Spider Man, he told Mr Stark right away. He'd been sent to the SI labs downtown to run diagnostics on the suit, assisted by Friday and Karen, and grumpily watched-over by Happy, who said that Mr Stark was busy with things that were as far above Peter’s paygrade as babysitting was below Happy’s.

Turns out, the Rogue Avengers were back. It hit the news two weeks later, when revised copies of the Sokovia Accords were released to the press. Soon after, Captain America was photographed buying coffee in Brooklyn, outfitted in a puffy jacket and a baseball cap, and the media circus began in earnest.

There were year-long negotiations that ended with the Accords being revised to a reluctant compromise, the Rogue Avengers being pardoned of their crimes, and the whole team moving back to the Compound in Upstate New York.

Mr Stark had spent an entire year living in Geneva, making headlines every few weeks when he was photographed in a different country with a different businessperson or dignitary or head of state. When the Accords were signed, there was a massive celebration that he was photographed leaving early, before dinner was served, arm around Colonel Rhodes' shoulders.

He was spotted twice in Philadelphia, a few times in Malibu, and once in Boston; then, according to reports, he was Upstate at the Avengers Compound again, reacquainting with the team.

Soon after that, Mr Stark spent a few months in Tokyo overseeing the Asia Headquarters of Stark Industries while their President was on maternity leave.

He had always been sure to check in on Peter, sending short texts and software updates via Friday, via Karen. But he’s so clearly been busy on a monumental, international, probably-intergalactic level that Peter can’t even begin to fathom it. He was surprised that Mr Stark hadn't forgotten him completely; he would have understood if that had been the case.

And besides, Peter had gotten along alright.

Patrolling as Spider Man under May's supervision was more restrictive, but the absence of secrets between them lifted a weight Peter hadn't realized was there. He stayed tight with Ned, and got close enough to MJ to finally reveal his secret-identity (though she insisted she'd known since DC).

Peter was too nervous about lying to date much, but he hooked up with a senior girl named Courtney on-and-off junior year, until she left for Wesleyan. After that he became friends-with-benefits with Jared, a Queens College sophomore who worked at CVS and flirted outrageously while ringing up Peter's bandages and sterile wound-wash.

His grades were up, his social-life was better than ever, and Spider Man was helping the little guy five nights a week. He graduated with his best friends, got into MIT, and agonized over being in Boston while Ned moved to Ithaca, MJ went to California, and May stayed in Queens. Mr Stark's absence was a bummer, sure, but Peter understood, and he hadn't really known the man enough to miss him in the first place.

Between sophomore homecoming and senior graduation, Peter was a comfortable, happy, and mostly-normal teenager who happened to moonlight as a local vigilante. Meanwhile Mr Stark appeared to have become a reluctant world leader. Peter was mature enough to realize who'd drawn the short straw between them, and counted his blessings accordingly.

Then, one balmy August afternoon, Mr Stark showed up at Peter's door.

* * *

The apartment is cool, curtains closed and AC cranked up too-high, warding off the heat of the midday sun; Peter doesn't want to sweat in his new outfit before he's even out the door.

He's getting ready to go to Ned's big sister's wedding this evening; the Leedses insist he's practically family after so many years of friendship, so he's always in on family events. It's nice, really, since he doesn't have much family of his own to speak of. He's not exactly eager to attend any formal event, but this is supposed to be their last hurrah before Ned moves into his dorm at Cornell three days later, so Peter is determined to make the most of being a platonic plus-one.

May had taken him to get a fancy suit in a color the tailor had called “mid-gray,” and when he’d gone back to pick it up, he’d quickly selected three shirts to go with it, and two ties. He had a new pair of black shoes as well, and a belt, and some black dress socks: all from Target. May had tried to object to that, but Peter still considered Target to be fairly fancy and refused to hear otherwise. She had already spent a couple hundred dollars at the suit shop, and Peter is determined not to grow at all until he can wear his new clothes to college graduation, a series of job interviews, and then to the bank to cash his first real paycheck, which he can then use to buy another fancy suit, if he so desires.

He's just finished tying his tie, flipping his shirt collar down and making his way to the kitchen, fully dressed except for his shoes. His hair is long in the front, keeps flopping down over his eyes, and he wishes May weren't at work so she could either fix it, or tell him to leave it alone; it's always easier to feel confident after a May Parker pep talk.

Suddenly he senses a presence, and whips around to face the front door. His web shooters are in his room because they had stuck out too much under his closely tailored suit jacket; he needs to get them back in the lab, see what he can't consolidate. There are three sharp raps against the front door, and Peter straightens from his defensive stance and goes to answer, reminding himself as he goes that intruders rarely knock, and normal people don't need plans-of-attack for every visitor.

He pulls the door open without checking the peephole, just to prove to himself that he's not completely afraid of unexpected human interaction, and freezes in place. His breath catches, and his hand clutches the doorknob tight, just this side of crushing.

It's Mr Stark.

Almost three years later, he's here. In Peter's doorway. Looking mildly surprised, for some reason, as if Peter's the one showing up out of nowhere. He's here, in Peter's doorway, looking surprised and tall and _good_  in a blue checkered suit and a white shirt and some kind of tiny, pinkish scarf. He's here, now, in Peter's doorway, taking off his purple-tinted Stark glasses and sliding them into his pants pocket; sliding both his hands into his pockets and leaving them there; bending his knees almost imperceptibly; rocking forward onto the balls of his feet; wearing clunky, ugly, white sneakers.

He's here, in Peter's doorway, and Peter, who has felt mostly positivity and goodwill towards the man for years, is shaken by the sick, spiteful urge to ask where the fight is now, and can they maybe take the same flight this time? Maybe catch up a bit?

This might be a mental short circuit, Peter thinks-- he knows them well enough to recognize the heat flare, the overload, the total system failure.

He remembers, distantly, that he hasn't breathed since he opened the door, and on the exhale his anger fades as abruptly as it came, but still just as unexplained. He is acutely aware that his face is frozen in shock, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. He waits, willing himself to release his vice grip on the door and succeeding only slightly.

Mr Stark looks him up and down --floppy hair to socked feet -- and then snorts.

“Is this the new style?” he asks skeptically, gaze somewhere below Peter's eye line, mouth tilted into a smirk.

Peter's loosened grip unloosens once more, and he forgets to breathe again. He had thought you couldn’t go wrong with the basics, but if Mr Stark thought his suit deserved mocking, it must really suck. He feels himself shrink, suddenly ashamed of his stupid mid-gray suit and white shirt and black tie and black belt and black socks; he can't tear his eyes away from those stupid socks as he forces out a reply.

“S-sorry. What? I-it’s… I—“ Peter’s face is on fire; he’d forgotten how small Tony Stark could make him feel.

“Your tie’s backwards,” Mr Stark elaborates flatly. Peter’s eyes snap back up, and he sees that Mr Stark is grinning at him, crow's feet crinkling in amusement.

“Oh. _Oh_. Good. I mean... not  _good,_ but I thought you meant-- I just…” He trails off with a heavy exhalation, embarrassed beyond words. Mr Stark’s smile softens, just a bit, and Peter feels himself start to smile, too.

“You look great, kid. Really. About a decade older than when I last saw you—“

“Just a couple of years—“

“—and I’m sorry about that. Really. I just wanted to, uh. Congratulate you. On graduating. And MIT. And your extracurricular stuff, too. You've been amazing." Peter is still blushing, and in favor of eye contact he examines the neat lines of Mr Stark's beard and hair, which look predictably perfect.

“Yeah, well. Thanks Mr Stark. Thank you for the letter of recommendation, you didn’t have to—“

“I _didn’t_ have to, you’re right. Because you were a shoo-in, regardless. You deserve it, Peter. You’re gonna do great.” The assertion is punctuated with a full, face-splitting smile that makes Peter's stomach flip in a way it never does when he's swinging between high-rises.

“Th-thanks sir.”

“Although you might want to figure out the tie thing," he teases. He looks  _delighted_ , and it makes Peter feel incoherent.

“Right.” Peter finally lets go of the doorknob, distractedly maybe, but he counts it as a win. He looks down at the tie dumbly, trying to mentally travel back to the world he lived in three minutes before, where he had a whole, functional brain that knew advanced calc and particle physics, and could have probably puzzled out a solution to this backwards-tie problem. He comes up empty, and his numb mind automatically takes his gaze back towards Mr Stark's face. He's looking back at Peter, uncharacteristically patient, and then--

“Can I…?” He reaches forward, pausing with his hands a few inches from Peter’s throat, eyebrow raised. Peter swallows, then nods. _Breathe in, breathe out._

“So, I didn’t ask… why the suit? Is it prom night?” Mr Stark's tone is light and conversational as he unwinds the knot around Peter’s throat. His hands work swiftly, efficiently, flipping Peter’s collar up and tugging the fabric loose.

“Um. No. My friend Ned— You remember, my Guy in the Chair?“

“Hmm... Superhero nerd, coding wiz, general menace to society?” Mr Stark jokes, glancing up to meet Peter’s eyes for a second with a conspiratorial grin. Peter returns it without thought, clearing his throat, focusing on speaking as Mr Stark works.

“Right uh… yeah. Ned. His sister – older sister. She’s getting married.” Mr Stark is turning the tie right-side-up and draping it back around Peter’s neck. “And I’m pretty close to their family so I’m… going. To the wedding.” Mr Stark tugs on the tie at both ends, evening it out so it lies flat against Peter’s chest.

“Mm. Sounds nice. This in the city? Need a ride?” He’s looping the tie around itself, pulling gently as he goes. Peter focuses on not swaying into it.

“Uh. No, sir, I uh—No thanks it’s—“ Mr Stark pulls the knot tight against Peter’s throat, flips the collar down, and withdraws his hands, nodding once firmly like he's satisfied with his handiwork.

“There. You have a ride, you said?” His focus seems to intensify tenfold, now that his hands are unoccupied, mind centering and eyes zeroing in. The increased scrutiny throws Peter off, and he has to concentrate even harder to collect his thoughts before speaking again.

“I’m going with Ned. And his grandparents. Yeah. Thanks, though." He gives a shy half-smile, wishing he'd lied and asked for a ride, just for a chance at more time with Mr Stark. But he couldn't just ditch Ned like that, or his  _Tutu_ and  _Pops_ , who were going out of their way to pick him up.

“Great," Mr Stark replies lightly. "Anything else I can—oh, wait!” He slides his hand into the interior pocket of his suit jacket, smooth as ever, pulling out what looks like a greeting-card envelope and holding it out toward Peter. "For you. This is mostly why I came by, so it's good I didn't forget." He shakes the paper lightly, eyebrow cocked, so Peter accepts it.

Upon closer inspection, it's actually three envelopes stacked together. One is lilac, and is addressed to 'Mrs May Parker' in a swooping, professional-looking script. The other two are peach-colored, the first addressed to 'Mr Peter Parker' in that same elegant handwriting, and the second just to 'Peter' in boxy capital letters.

Peter looks them over, hoping Mr Stark will let him know if he's supposed to open them now, or after he leaves. When he glances back up, he's met with an inquiring gaze.

“Where are your cufflinks?” Mr Stark asks, surveying the cluttered table in the entryway. It occurs to Peter, just then, that he should have invited Mr Stark into the actual apartment. They’re just standing at the threshold, door wide open, Mr Stark half in the hallway. Anyone could come by, but no one has.

“Oh, I’m not wearing cufflinks. Just, you know,” Peter waves his hands in an utterly meaningless gesture, “just casual.” He sets down the envelopes on the side table, worried he'll drop them, even with his sticky fingers.

Mr Stark raises an eyebrow again. Peter wonders if that’s an upper-class thing, the constant eyebrow raising, or if he's just being slow enough today to deserve it.

“Your cuffs don’t have buttons; you need cufflinks to close them.”

“I need… huh?” Peter asks, lifting his wrist to eye level, staring dumbly at the loose sleeves.

“Cufflinks. To link the cuffs.” Mr Stark purses his lips as Peter stands frozen, glancing back and forth between the sleeve and his face. “Where did you get this shirt?”

“I bought it. At a—uh… a suit store? Well, May bought it. Paid for the suit and it was a... like a sale? One flat rate for getting the suit tailored, plus... plus some shirts and ties a-and... I...” He clears his throat, eyes feeling dry and achey from not blinking for so long.

“And you didn’t—“ Mr Stark starts, sounding skeptical, so Peter interrupts in a panic.

“I didn’t look at the sleeves when I bought it. The guy didn’t say-- Why would they not have buttons? I don’t… I don’t _have_ cufflinks. Why would I have _cufflinks_?” Flooded with anxiety at his own stupid, unfashionable, unpreparedness, he’s talking double-time. His palms are starting to sweat, his thoughts spiraling to catastrophe. The wedding is _today_. “Where can I get cufflinks?!”

Mr Stark is staring at him, eyes a little wide, palms splayed between them in calming, non-threatening manner.

“Deep breaths, Parker, no need to despair. Here, here—take these.” He tugs on his right sleeve with his left hand, smoothly popping the cufflink out, and then repeats it on the other side.

“No –-No, Mr Stark, you can’t—“ Peter is horrified, palms still sweating, heart racing too fast.

“I really can, though. Want to, too. C’mon.” He reaches for Peter’s wrist where it’d been held up for inspection and pulls it toward himself. Mr Stark’s grip is jarring in its gentleness; it feels almost like the pull of a soft wave, a current guiding him. It calms him, and when Peter speaks next, the frantic energy has drained away and his voice is small and soft.

“What will you wear?” he asks.

Mr Stark’s gaze is focused on securing the cufflink, but his hands freeze at Peter’s hoarse whisper, and there’s a beat before he glances up, smiling beatifically.

“Don’t need ‘em. I’m Tony Stark, I wear what I want. Plus I’m not going anywhere important, like my sidekick’s sister’s wedding.” Peter inhales long and slow through his nose, watching as Mr Stark slides the second cufflink into place, feeling himself grin dopily. He smells sweat and cologne and coffee, overwhelmingly so. Mr Stark rambles on.

“Besides, I’m sure the tabloids would eat it up. Iron Man: he’s just like us!” The joke is lame, his tone playful, but his smile and his eyes are warm. Peter is horrified by the thought that he might cry if Mr Stark keeps looking at him like this when he’s so vulnerable;  _that_ would be embarrassing, even for Peter Parker.

So he stares too hard at the cufflinks, to stop himself from staring too hard into Mr Stark's eyes. They're deep blue stones, some kind Peter can't recall seeing before, suffused with reflective pinpoints that almost look like light shining from within. They're like little balls of starry night-sky encased in smooth, heptagonal settings of silvery metal. They're beautiful, and Peter dazedly reaches his right hand to touch the opposite wrist's stone, to see if it's as smooth or as infinite as it appears, or--

He freezes, millimeters before he makes contact. The seconds break apart, his body tensing, senses dissecting the time and space around him as he prepares to--

Mr Stark's watch beeps three times, fast, and the tension falls away. The alarm is insistent, and a bit shrill, but it's innocuous compared to whatever Peter thought he felt coming.

The noise made Mr Stark startle for a second, but then he's scrutinizing the watch face and donning his glasses again, eyes focusing strangely as the lenses shift into display screens.

"Is it--" Peter begins to ask, but Mr Stark cuts him off.

"Business thing," he says curtly. He sounds frustrated, but entirely collected. "Nothing for you to worry about."

Peter shoves his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling. He looks up from his socks again just in time to see Mr Stark's face go from grim to charismatic in the time it takes to whip off his glasses. He does it like a movie star, and Peter's heart tumbles, thrown off but exhilarated by the wide smile and bright eyes.

"Best be going," he announces airily, voice at least twice it's previous volume. "Lots to do, and so little time to do it. Things tend to fall apart without little old me looking over everybody's shoulder, dotting t's, crossing i's, etcetera, etcetera."

This Tony Stark is not the one who affectionately needled Peter moments before, who kindly offered help and joked away the awkwardness; this is a full diversion, a camera-ready red herring, _wind-him-up-and-watch-him-go_. Peter snorts unattractively, drawn into it despite himself.

"Sir, don't you mean--"

"Innovation, exactly! Knew you'd get it! Now, then. You have your cards, yes? Yes. You do. So I'll be--" he taps at his watch "--on my way then. You're dressed, you're ready, go enjoy your wedding!" His smile is still huge, even as he steps the rest of the way back from the threshold.

"It's not  _my_ wedding," Peter jokes back. He feels drugged and foolish, willingly falling for the facade, but it feels too good; his automatic smile is stretching his cheeks almost painfully. If his Spider Senses are calmed down, then nothing too-awful could be happening. Mr Stark must have a hundred crises a day, very few of which could be helped by Peter's involvement.

"Of course not, of course not but... make the night your own! Not at the expense of the bride, I mean, they can be... touchy. This one time in Malta-- oh but that was ages ago!" Mr Stark weaves, and Peter is caught up in it. "Point is, have fun. Maybe add some shoes to the ensemble, just to start. See where the night takes you."

Peter looks at his own socked feet again, nodding his agreement and laughing in a way that's only slightly too masculine to be called a giggle. Mr Stark's eyes soften a bit, at that, and his smile falls into something gentler, voice going quiet again.

"It was really good to see you, kid. Sorry it wasn't sooner."

Peter swallows loudly; his mouth and throat feel strange, and his jaw aches from grinning. Their eyes are locked.

"You too, sir. Thanks again, for--" Mr Stark waves him off, and Peter goes silent immediately. He swallows again. He feels busted open.

The watch beeps again, and Mr Stark reaches in to pull the door shut abruptly, saying "Bye, kid" softly as he moves, and then he's murmuring "Talk to me, FRI. Rhodey?" before the latch clicks shut.

 When the door closes Peter sits down heavily on the couch, resisting the urge to tug on his tie – if he messes it up now he’ll never get it back how it was. He picks up his key ring and starts spinning it around his index finger, diverting nervous energy as he thinks.

Mr Stark just tied his tie. The knot around his neck was made by the hands that built the Iron Man armor in a cave in Afghanistan; the hands that had synthesized a new element from nothing; the hands that had negotiated, revised, and signed the New Sokovia Accords, saving the world in a new way. He remembers watching old newsreels of the young Stark heir building circuits in an MIT lab --ignoring the reporter's questions and not flinching when he soldered his bare skin-- mind totally absorbed, channeled through quick, capable fingers.

Sure, Peter might have had a crush on Tony Stark back when he was in middle school, and Iron Man was everything to him, and he’d stumbled on a particularly sultry GQ spread. But it hadn’t been like that in ages; certainly not since they’d met. Peter was pathetic, yeah, but that was because he wanted to _be_ Tony Stark, not because of… anything else. But here it was, back again, full force. He twirls his keys faster, at such a rate that he’d be in danger of flinging them across the room if not for his powers.

He had refused to think of it consciously a minute ago, because it was too much just being in a room with Mr Stark after almost three years. So he had refused to think about the knuckles brushing his throat until Mr Stark had left.

Peter would congratulate himself for mental fortitude, but honestly it felt more like a mental block. His mind had tried to approach it and then-- _nope_. Not then, not with _him_ there. Peter's knees had nearly buckled as it was. His breath is still coming in short. He's spinning the key ring faster, still.

But now...

It rushes back through his head: the shock, the rage, the thrill, the attraction, the affection, the awe, the  _comfort_. It had all been so intense, senses dialed way past eleven, it had seemed. Not entirely in a good way, but... completely worth it.

Mr Stark had been kind and funny and helpful and _so very_ complimentary. He'd given Peter gifts-- even brought something for May. He'd smiled so many different smiles and they'd all been _gorgeous_. He'd set his eyes and his mind on Peter, and he'd said:  _You deserve it, Peter. You’re gonna do great._ He'd said:  _You've been amazing,_  and _Y_ _ou look great, kid_  and _About a decade older than when I last saw you_ \--

Peter's keys slap against his palm, stinging, as he stops their rapid circuit, clutching them in his fist. He tries to slow down his train of thought, to zero in on the things that make him smile and not the ones that make him feel on-fire. It's too much, too suddenly, and so completely out-of-the-blue. He needs to calm down, but being worked up feels too good.

Absurdly, his mind is fixated on the way Mr Stark had pulled out those envelopes. Casually reaching into his jacket, slipping out paperwork; the image of an efficient, important businessman. Peter's throat is dry, so he drops the keys back onto coffee table and heads to the kitchen for some water.

 

As he’s replaying the interaction in his mind for the _nth_ time --carefully accurate, so as not to misremember in the future-- his thoughts snag on something that makes him grab his phone and text his best friend.

**Mr S was here**

**STARK????!!**

**everything ok? U need to skip today?**

**ALIESN????!!! U can tell me if it is u know**

 

**No he was just checking in??? I guess????**

**BTW**

**“superhero nerd, coding wiz, general menace to society”**

**^^^Tony Stark on u**

The phone starts to ring immediately. When he picks up, Ned is yelling, already mid-sentence, but that’s fine because Peter is already mid-laugh.

* * *

* * *

Peter wakes up in the backseat of a Rolls Royce Phantom somewhere in central Massachusetts, backpack still hugged to his chest. The driver has rolled down the divider and turned on soft interior lights to gently rouse him from his nap.

"We're at the airfield, time to wake up."

He yawns wide and scrubs at his eyes. Parked in front of the car is a massive airplane with 'Stark' painted across the side in three-meter high lettering. Larger than life. Shauna is peering back at him from the driver's seat, an indulgent expression on her face.

"Whenever you're ready, Peter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> Comments always appreciated!


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